Taffin on Balance Page 10

  ‘That may sound trivial to you but you’re off any normal scale. You deal in billions – tens of billions, I believe.’ Janice Glennan toys with the Champagne flute on the table at her elbow. ‘Money is money. What is there to understand?’

  ‘You make my point for me.’ Frey-Morton lets his gaze wander around the characterless hotel suite. ‘You, my dear, see it as a commodity – something to be amassed and enjoyed at leisure. It’s because of people who think like you that money keeps circulating the way it does – finally accruing to a miniscule elite who know how to use it. With respect, you have no understanding of what real money can do.’

  ‘Tutor me.’ Janice Glennan ripples to a receptive posture, chin in hand, legs drawn up on the couch. ‘I wouldn’t want to miss the point.’

  ‘I think the point is too subtle for you.’

  ‘It hasn’t been so far, Daniel.’

  ‘Your values are childishly simple. They start and end with what you want for yourself. In your case the gold standard is your sexuality – on which you set a high premium by the way.’

  ‘Now you’re trying to offend me.’ Janice pouts, avoiding his eye.

  ‘If I tried, you would run for cover. You’re not so fragile. You’ll take a lot, but you won’t take offense.’

  ‘I hope you’re not giving up on me, Daniel – you’re not the type to give up on anything you start. I know you better than that.’

  ‘Be very clear.’ He holds out a hand and she moves to him. ‘Things start when I say and end when I say. Don’t kid yourself, Janice, you don’t know me at all.’

  ‘What I don’t know, I can imagine.’

  ‘You have no more imagination than that husband of yours.’

  ‘Help me.’ She looks into his face, passive, shoulders bare now.

  ‘I’ll tell you just once. There’s only one kind of money worth the effort. It’s called Fuck You Money and that’s more than most people ever dream of. Your husband and people like him are hampered by limited imagination and low self-belief. Deep down, they know what they’re worth and that’s all they’ll ever make.’

  ‘Gordon’s a wealthy man. Why knock yourself out making billions you can never hope to spend? What can you buy with all that money?

  ‘You, my dear, heart and soul, and everyone like you. You and all the systems, the laws and law-makers you think are there to protect you. When you grasp that, the world is much cheaper than you think.’

  Janice settles back, watching him. ‘So money is power. That’s obvious.’

  ‘Your husband’s a wealthy man – you just said it. So where’s the power?’

  ‘He has a certain amount of influence now. At some stage he will retire from public life on an enormous pension and be able to live very much as he wants – always assuming the pressures of office don’t get him first. Those aren’t bad prospects.’

  ‘Pensions are poison.’ Frey-Morton’s gaze settles on some point in the middle distance. ‘They encourage the illusion of security. Show me a man with a big pension and I’ll show you a man who peaked too soon.’

  ‘You’re not a typical case. I can believe you’ve never thought about a pension.’

  ‘But I have. My first employer, my mentor, had nothing but contempt for employees who expected him to supply lifelong security. When he was dying, he advised me to raid the corporate pension fund, which I did, to make my first billion.’

  ‘Are you sure you trust me with that information?’ Janice looks up at him, teasing.

  ‘Quite sure.’

  Janice smiles again. ‘I don’t think Gordon would approve. He claims some kind of moral code and still has some say in family matters.’

  ‘As long as you allow it. You have the power, so you have the wealth. Take it and use it. Now –’ Frey-Morton sits back and studies her – ‘I need to see how slowly – with what infinite subtlety – you can shed that silk thing you’re almost wearing. Go ahead, Janice – try to take offense – you won’t convince either of us.’

  FOURTEEN

  AT AN HOUR he would normally describe as ‘ungodly’, Pierre is woken up by Charlotte tapping on the window of the van.

  This is distressing for him on several levels. For some time now he has found that the first few seconds of consciousness come with a fleeting sense of futility that fades but leaves traces through the day. He is also aware of not looking his best first thing in the morning and is vain enough to care. More to the point, though, an agreeable dream lingers, taunting him with an atmosphere he would return to, given the chance.

  ‘Stir yourself, you idle bugger.’ Charlotte stares at his tight-knit face as he emerges from the sleeping bag. ‘We’ve got to get you out of here one time quick.’

  He leans over and opens the door. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘The problem, my honey-voiced boy, is the bookshop is occupied by people you don’t want to meet. Come on, move it.’

  ‘The speakers are in there.’

  ‘Leave them. Get your engine running and move out. I’ll be right behind you.’

  The Jeep is a few feet away, door open. Charlotte hurries back to it and fires up the engine with a deep V8 grumble.

  Pierre casts around for his keys, fumbles them into the ignition and hangs on patiently until a clattering from behind tells him the camper is ready to move.

  Charlotte waves him past and he heads for the gap in the hedge that leads out to the road.

  A figure blocking his path. Pierre doesn’t like to make rush judgments but can’t help it this time: leather jacket sitting on square shoulders – this man isn’t open to small talk.

  Michael Wyatt watches the Camper van heading towards him and knows by instinct that the driver of this rattletrap will always come off second best at chicken.

  Pierre pulls the Camper up with feet to spare, conscious of Charlotte’s Jeep in his mirror. He can sense her frustration, knows she would have kept going and made the man jump clear, but that’s not in his nature.

  No time to think. The door is open and the man’s face is inches from his own.

  ‘Going somewhere?’ Wyatt casts an eye over the interior and stares Pierre in the face.

  ‘I was just leaving...’

  ‘Oh, you were leaving? What’ve you got in there?’

  ‘Nothing – just camping stuff.’

  ‘Yeah, and my dick’s a bloater. Get out.’

  Pierre struggles for an answer but Wyatt’s hand grips the front of his sweatshirt and pulls him half out of the cab.

  ‘LET GO OF HIM YOU FUCKING APE.’

  ‘You got something to say, Lady?’ Wyatt turns to face Charlotte who has stepped out of the Jeep to confront him.

  ‘You heard. Let go of him. We’ve got no business with you.’

  Wyatt has released Pierre to give Charlotte his full attention and now stands squarely before her.

  Charlotte looks past him to see Pierre floundering to sit upright in his driving seat. ‘Get going, Kid. This clown ain’t going to do anything.’

  Pierre hesitates, torn between self-preservation and atavistic chivalry. Charlotte waves him away.

  ‘YOU HEARD – GO. I’LL BE RIGHT BEHIND YOU.’

  The camper lurches forward through the gap into the road and stops, Pierre looking behind, trying to measure the situation.

  Charlotte turns back to the Jeep but Wyatt grabs her by the arm and spins her to face him.

  ‘You ain’t going nowhere, Lady.’

  ‘Oh? Why’s that then?’

  ‘You’re on private land. You’ve got some explaining to do.’

  Charlotte is still watching the camper van and now waves it away with more urgency. She addresses Wyatt without looking at him.

  ‘If this is private land, you’re on it too.’

  ‘Y
ou got a problem with that? What were you and that pimply kid doing – like them young, do you?’

  ‘Get your hand off.’ Charlotte forces patience into her voice.

  ‘You haven’t explained what you were doing here yet.’

  ‘That’s not going to happen. And you need to get your hand off me now.’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘Oh, look – he’s escaping...’ Charlotte watches the camper pulling away and in the same instant jerks her arm from Wyatt’s grasp.

  Wyatt lashes out by instinct catching her on the shoulder and hurling her face first against the door of the jeep. Charlotte, off balance, stumbles into the rear door and slips to the ground, struggling up, tasting blood on her lip, rounding on Wyatt with wildcat eyes, fist bunched.

  ‘Whoa...’ Wyatt holding up his hands, ‘you need to be more careful – you’ll do yourself a mischief.’

  Charlotte staring him in the eye, wiping the blood from her mouth, turning to climb into the jeep.

  Wyatt, feigning amusement, standing by the gap in the hedge. Charlotte rolls down her window.

  ‘My friend is a nice guy – he stopped. I’m coming through now – you decide if you want to be in the way.’

  She guns the engine. The Jeep clears the gap with inches to spare, Wyatt standing aside like a matador.

  Greg Dupree comes out of the bookshop in time to see the Jeep go by. The sign hanging inside the door twists with the current of air: OPEN... CLOSED... OPEN... CLOSED...

  There are no lights inside today, no browsing bookworms, no welcoming voice.

  ‘IS YOUR BED NOT COMFORTABLE, DEAR?’ June Dunphy sets a fresh pot of coffee in front of Taffin and looks at him with concern.

  ‘Very comfortable.’

  ‘Well how would you know? You haven’t slept in it.’

  ‘Working late.’ Taffin lets his gaze rest on this hospitable woman.

  ‘Strange work you do.’ She pours coffee into his cup. ‘You need your sleep, y’know.’

  ‘I get plenty, love.’

  ‘Well, I’m blowed if I know when. What kind of work is it you do?’

  ‘Motor trade, mainly.’

  ‘Which is why you have that lovely car. It looks like new but it can’t be.’

  ‘Nineteen sixty-six. It’s a classic.’

  ‘Your face almost went soft when you said that. I’ll leave you to finish your breakfast.’

  She takes his clean plate and withdraws to the kitchen leaving Taffin with toast, coffee and his notebook.

  Progress: Tooth Fairy searching house for car documents? Not found yet.

  Sherman can’t or won’t say where they are.

  If not in house, where?

  Action: let Ed and Rick know what to look for.

  Taffin puts the notebook away, finishes his coffee and is about to leave the table when his mobile rings.

  ‘Mister Taffin?’ An unfamiliar voice.

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘It’s Pierre. My sister is your masseuse. I’ve been doing a job for you – at the bookshop.’

  ‘Going alright?’

  ‘The job’s over. Some men came and closed the shop. Your lady was there but she told me to get going so I had to leave her. I didn’t want to because they were getting rough but she said I had to go. I thought I should tell you.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Just now – maybe ten minutes ago.’

  June Dunphy looks in to ask her guest if he needs anything more but sees only an empty table and a flash of red passing the window.

  The Mustang’s engine barks in the morning and fades into the distance.

  ON THE HILLSIDE outside Ashley Gunn’s barn conversion, the Mustang stands with the engine ticking as it cools.

  Taffin takes off his dark glasses and stares into Charlotte’s face. Bruised cheek and cut lip. She meets his eye with a challenge. ‘You should see the other fella.’

  ‘I will.’ Taffin running a thumb gently over the bruise, looking into her eyes then closely at her lip. ‘We need to get some Germolene on that.’

  ‘Listen to you, Doctor Taffin. No bones broken, all my own teeth. I’ll be alright.’

  ‘This happened at the bookshop?’

  ‘Young Pierre’s a sweet lad but he worries too much. He shouldn’t have got you back for this. Yeah, it was at the bookshop. No –’ she catches his arm – ‘you’re staying here with me. I need comforting.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘Never seen him before. You know the type – no space between hairline and eyebrows. I didn’t get much of a look at the other one.’ She leads him indoors and they settle down on an arrangement of tea chests and cushions.

  Taffin continues to stare at her.

  ‘You can stop smoldering,’ she tells him. ‘What did you expect? A developer’s bound to have a few head-bangers on the payroll for when things don’t go their way. I don’t suppose Glennan hires people like that but they wind up working for him anyway.’ She gets up and plugs the kettle in. ‘We’ve got electricity here now, what d’you think of that?’

  ‘Impressive.’

  ‘Yeah –’ she settles down beside him again – ‘when are you going to learn?’

  Taffin’s gaze settles on her.

  Charlotte watches him and continues quietly. ‘You may not remember, but you promised me a long time ago there wouldn’t be any more stuff like this. You were through with collecting and all the tricks that go with it. That’s what you promised me.’

  ‘I did.’ Taffin nods.

  ‘Not going too well, is it?’ She cocks her head on one side and makes owl eyes at him.

  ‘This problem came to us, I didn’t go looking for it.’

  ‘Someone’s trying to torpedo our business – I know that – but you didn’t really have to get involved with the bookshop.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘You did your bit to help. It was a nice idea and it worked for a while but it’s time to let it go.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘I do. Maybe this would also be a good time to call Ed and Rick back, get the business up and running again and stick two fingers up at any third-rate clowns who think they can stop us. You’ve beaten better odds before.’

  ‘That’s not the answer, girl.’

  ‘Why not? This isn’t exactly a polite business we’re in, or hadn’t you noticed?’

  ‘I’ve noticed.’ The hint of a smile.

  ‘There you go then – business as usual. Why not just front it out?’

  ‘I need to know who we’re dealing with and why our business is a target.’

  Charlotte gets up, drops tea bags into two cups, pours in boiling water and fills the silence by watching it brew.

  ‘Why does it matter? When they see us back operating as normal, they’ll realize whatever they was trying to pull didn’t work and give up, won’t they?’

  ‘I’d like to believe that.’ Taffin takes his mug of tea gratefully. ‘I’ve got a feeling it ain’t so simple.’

  ‘MY HUSBAND ISN’T HERE.’ Janice Glennan swings the front door closed but only succeeds in making the brass lion’s head knocker judder on its mount.

  The door swings open again. Janice takes stock: this man put his foot in the doorway without apparently moving a muscle. Dark glasses study her quietly.

  ‘Move your foot.’ Janice controls her voice in spite of warning sirens in her head. ‘I won’t tell you again. You’re not coming in.’

  ‘I don’t want to come in, Mrs Glennan.’ No attempt to project the voice. ‘I want to speak to your husband.’

  ‘We’re not up yet. What do you mean by calling at this hour?’

  ‘Tell your husband I’ll be waiting right here.’ Taffin moves effortlessl
y past her into the hall.

  ‘I thought you didn’t want to come in.’

  ‘I changed my mind.’

  ‘I’m going straight upstairs to call the police.’

  ‘I’ll chance it. Tell Mister Glennan to get up – we’ve got business to discuss.’

  ‘Alright –’ Janice Glennan moves to let the silk dressing gown hint at her contours – ‘let’s take another approach. What makes you think I can’t speak for my husband? Discuss whatever it is with me.’

  Taffin wanders across the hall and leans against the newel post. ‘I’ll be right here.’

  Janice takes two shimmering steps to the stairs. ‘You planted that stolen car here, didn’t you?’

  No response.

  ‘What is it this time – the bookshop, or have you set your sights higher? StarTrack?’

  ‘The sooner you get him down here, the sooner I’ll be gone.’

  ‘Oh, Mister Taffin –’ the heavy-lidded eyes – ‘it’s such a pleasure to meet you at last. You may think your silent menace routine works on everyone, but you’re well out of your league here, I promise you.’ She sweeps past him up the stairs leaving a waft of Channel in her wake.

  Ten Minutes later Gordon Glennan comes down to an empty hall. He glances left, right and left again. He is about to call upstairs to his wife but changes his mind: what’s she supposed to do, anyway?

  There’s no one in the dining room, no one in the drawing room; the kitchen is empty. The study: his usual refuge. Strangely, it never occurred to him that anyone would come in here uninvited.

  He has always thought of his desk as broad, imposing – a piece of power furniture befitting his position – but the man occupying the chair behind it makes the desk look insignificant.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ The words come thinly. ‘That’s my desk. Everything on it is private and confidential. You’d oblige me by getting out of my chair.’

  ‘Sit down.’

  ‘What? You don’t give me orders in my own house.’

  Gordon Glennan becomes acutely aware of a high-pitched singing in his ears and his visitor’s unnatural stillness. He clears his throat and takes a seat facing the desk.